Assurgent
by nesoia
Summary: For one, Amity is a paradise; for another, it is a prison. Can a safe haven be found among the factions, or is it too good to be true? The story follows a parallel, 'equal' timeline (same setting, different characters). If backstory is too long skip to Ch 3. Rated M (language & violence-this does get dark, so please don't read if you're easily upset by these). Img Holly Sierra Art.
1. Chapter 1

Assurgent [as-sur-gent] \ə-ˈsər-jənt\ _adj_.: 1. _Botany._ (of leaves, stems, etc) curving or growing upwards; rising or tending to rise, especially 2. moving upward; ascendant

Rowan

Choosing Day, for me, should have been like every other; I knew where I belonged and where I would stay. I had seen others from my faction grow doubtful and despondent, watched the progression of heads lowering and eyes clouding as the Day approached. But I did not have parents to disappoint, nor did I possess skills that would have deemed me fit for anything other than my birth faction. Above all, the strongest force that keeps me in Amity is the memory of my mother. She would've wanted me to go into Erudite, or Candor, or Dauntless, anywhere but this 'mirage masquerading as an oasis', as she used to call it. But if she stays, I stay.

Wade claps me on the shoulder as he takes the empty seat next to me, and I give a nod in return. Our mothers had been best friends ever since they had become pregnant. They pretty much had to; Wade and I were 'free love' babies, as encouraged by Amity dictum, but our dads didn't stick around for us to even be born. It was the most fortuitous thing that could have happened for us, though: we grew up, all four of us. Wade and I had not only been neighbors, but we were also best friends, inseparable, through the jeers and taunts and particular cruelty that can only be found among schoolchildren. One of our mothers would make sure that we ate and completed our schoolwork, while the other worked until past the dinner bell to meet the weekly harvest quota. It wasn't easy, but we always had food privileges for the day and clothes on our back. Besides, it was better than having a drunk, enraged, factionless-deserving excuse for a father who would've only been unworking hands and an extra mouth to feed. Hazel's dad had been the same, until her mother managed to get him kicked out of Amity for selling appeasement serum to Erudites. No, we had had good childhoods without our fathers, and returned the work our mothers had put in for us five times over after we surpassed them in height and strength. We had been happy, or as happy as you can be in a place that advertises and markets joy. Two years ago, I had been content.

Knowing the gravity of leaving me with my thoughts for too long, Wade murmurs, "You ok?" I nod automatically, realizing a few moments later that I missed the opening speech and half of Candor has already Chosen. I try to memorize each person's Choosing in an attempt to concentrate on the ceremony. I remembered the moment in my childhood when I learned this trick; my mother had whispered it to me, smiling, before we reached the school perimeter one day.

"Dream in secret," she had told me, with dimpled cheeks and eyes full of sadness. "When you are here, work and obey and quell. But when you are alone, dream ceaselessly, so that it becomes part of you. So that they can never take it away from you."

* * *

It is almost our faction's turn to Choose. Only a handful of Abnegation are left. My mind had been wandering again; it was impossible to focus when the sea of faces never changed within each faction: Dauntless with their arrogantly narrowed eyes and jaws thrust too far forward, Abnegation's meekly bowed heads and carefully tucked elbows, the deeply furrowed brows and haughtily raised chins of the Erudites, all the same, one after another, choosing to be imprudent or pretentious or boorish or forever acquiescent. I stare, unseeing, at the Choosing bowls, ashamed for brooding like a petulant child, yet allowing it anyway. I was, however, doubly thankful for Wade at that moment, whom I trusted to give me a subtle nudge when it was almost time for my Choosing. Thoughts drifted between my mother, my true friend, and the various possible outcomes of a different Choice.

Suddenly, with an ice-skid shock of recognition, I was jolted out of my contemplation by the most familiar, heartrending look of defeat I have ever known.

She looked more Erudite than Abnegation, with a gaunt face and thin, bowed shoulders. I scanned the crowd for her parents, and when I spotted them, I realized why she looked the way she did. She had her mother's large, dark eyes, high cheekbones, and olive skin, all of which were made more prominent by the taut, black knot at the base of her skull; they both also shared an attempted but poorly hid expression of utter exhaustion. But even so, something wasn't quite right: the thin sweater around her shoulders couldn't hide her sharp collarbones and bony wrists; she was so pale that even from our distance, I could see a dark river of veins traveling from temple to jaw; and from her position under the stage lights, her cheekbones cast dark, slanting shadows across the sides of her face and purplish circles hid her eyes entirely in shadow. She looked like she hadn't slept or eaten properly in years; the look of her alone left a feeling of deep unsettlement in my chest.

I knew from the way she was pointedly avoiding her parents' gaze as she walked past them, the way a dog with its tail between its legs will do when repeatedly hurt or betrayed, that she wanted only to escape but would forever remain where she was out of obligation or responsibility or whatever horseshit excuse she had been fed. I suddenly felt a blistering, inexplicable anger towards no one in particular.

I watched as she took small, soundless steps to the Choosing bowls, her hands knotted protectively against her navel in the traditional Abnegation pose. We both knew which faction she was going to Choose, and we both hated her for it. I imagined her in ten years, with wrinkled hands and the three children all Abnegation are encouraged to bear, the shadows under her eyes as grey as her dress, thinking back to this day while sitting in silence and darkness at a small kitchen table. My rage turned into a deep, welling pity and I looked away, unable to once more witness the look of quiet, gentle resignation that had haunted me for years.

I look around at the other Choosers and their families and see that almost everyone is as uninterested as I had been a few seconds ago. The announcement of her faction booms over the speakers, attracting the attention of those around me and igniting a round of applause. I don't understand what has happened until, from behind me, Heather whispers excitedly, "Oh, wonderful!"

She breathed an audible sigh of relief and, with shaking hands, drew in the blanket that was thrown around her thin frame. As her mouth curved in a small, shy smile, slight dimples appeared in her cheeks.

I sat rooted in my chair as cheers erupted from my faction, welcoming the girl with a smile on her face and sadness in her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

We piled into trucks with large, flat beds and set off for the wall. My curiosity to see what was on the other side—combined with the invigoration that comes with finally being allowed to do something that has always been forbidden to you—quickly overpowered my nervousness. Nevertheless, I perched on the edge of my seat and wrapped my blanket more tightly around myself as we approached. The high wall sloped slightly inward and cast a large shadow for hundreds of yards throughout the streets. Although the familiar purple tinge of the sky could be seen above, it was almost twilight-dark nearing the last few feet before the outer entrance.

I tried to brush off the guilt weighing on my shoulders. My last thought before we passed through the small, heavily guarded entryway was an overused phrase my schoolteacher used to recite during shortage years: _the night is always darkest before dawn_. I had always dreaded hearing those words; however, my thoughts could not have rung truer than a premonition when I saw what was waiting for me on the other side.

Suddenly, I am met with the most spectacular, overwhelming array of colors I have ever seen. The sky is ablaze with reds, golds, pinks, and oranges, all too vivid to be true, impossibly melded into one another both seamlessly and separately. I stare, transfixed, pausing only to look incredulously around me at the other members carelessly chatting away, oblivious to the miracle I am witnessing. I have no way to describe it, only that I now seemed to have an innate, fundamental understanding of how humans could be capable of music and art and madness and I wanted more than anything to be part of it.

I felt a sudden outpouring of pity for the Abnegation I had left behind, for those who are encouraged to be shut away indoors by the time evening has fallen. They had never seen anything like this before; it made me wonder if the other enclosed factions had experienced or even heard about life-changing moments such as this. I certainly never had.

I caught myself beaming like a child. I folded my lips between my teeth in an attempt to stifle the emotion, to no avail: my grin expanded tenfold and was accompanied by an instant of quiet laughter as a cool breeze ruffled the freed wisps of hair around my face. A few seconds later, however, I remembered what my mother used to say to me whenever she saw such a display, and felt the corners of my mouth sink into a pained grimace.

I had always hated that my face was so expressive. It was like being forced to wear my heart on my sleeve, making me an easy target for ridicule, or worse. I had tried for years to settle my face into the blank, unreadable expression so prized among Abnegation, only to have my mom doubly admonish me after a scolding to stop looking at her 'like a lost child.' There is something shameful and helpless about not being able to control your features. It was my eyes that gave me away: the outsides were old and haggard, with bruised circles, doughy pouches, and swollen lids perpetually half-closed in an attempt to ward off pain and fatigue. But my eyes themselves were that of a child's, almost impossibly huge, deep, dark brown, stupidly, carelessly trusting, knowing when advantage was being taken but choosing increasingly darkened lids over assertiveness time and time again.

I met the eye of another Amity sitting across from me; before I could avert my gaze—and instead of averting hers— she briefly matched my smile in warmth and ardor before turning back to her conversation. Here, everyone was allowed to show exactly what they were feeling. Here, maybe there could be friendship and acceptance instead of isolation.

I had never seen such kindness except within single familial units in Abnegation. Family is regarded above any and all relationships, responsible for providing you with all the love you will ever need.

When you are loved, you are strong and right and true. But when it is taken from you, or worse, if it was never there to begin with, if it is held aloft so you strain your calves just for the chance to graze it with your fingertips, you can never be sure you are doing the right thing. I remember my father's favorite words, spoken day after exhausting day, when my mother and I were expected to work for hours, only to come home to cook and clean while he slept in his chair near the window.

"Go," he would loudly declare, "find someone who will take care of you like we do. Find someone who will treat you as well as we do."

I had kept my head down and my mouth shut to keep the blame and anger away from my mother, but the words had wormed their way under my skin and settled solidly between my ribs. Such as when you're too anemic to bruise, but you can feel the ache that lasts for weeks underneath the surface. I felt no protectiveness towards my sister, who was two years my senior and whose personality mirrored my father's in every way imaginable; she had left for Candor, leaving me secretly relieved for not having yet another apathetic, idle person to constantly attend to. And while I did my best to protect my mother, she was emotionally a child, incapable of criticism or change, needing constant validation of being the perfect parent yet only ever using us as a crutch or a shield. But my brother was five years younger than me, and the thought of leaving him alone with my parents kept me up for nights on end. No matter how much I hated it here, I couldn't leave him. In the end, however, he was the one who ended up saving me.

"You have to leave," he had told me one evening, washing dishes as I was preparing dinner before our parents had returned. When I tried to protest: "You can't blame yourself for the people they are, and if you do, you're just as bad. I'm leaving for Erudite in a few years; I can handle them until then. If you don't go, neither one of us will ever forgive you."

After that night, I had vowed to myself that I would leave in any way possible, no matter what. And now, I finally had. I was free.


	3. Chapter 3

In twos and threes, laughing, chattering Amity poured into the Mess Hall to break bread together as a newly remade faction. I chose a seat at the end of a far table. Almost immediately, the seats next to me became occupied and I was greeted by three carefree smiles.

"I'm Brooke; this is my brother, Glen." Twin pairs of grey eyes with long, dark lashes creased at the corners as they met mine. She nodded in the direction of the third, a pale, fresh-faced, lanky boy a couple years from his Choosing. "That's Mason. We picked that stray up somewhere along the way."

He grinned good-naturedly at her before turning his attention to me.

"You got a name, Stiff?"

Brooke cuffed his arm with a frown, accepted his embarrassed shrug as an apology, then looked at me expectantly. But I had hardly heard the familiar insult as I scanned the crowd absentmindedly, already lost in thought.

There is a word from an old, forgotten language; a rich, rolling word; one I had encountered many years ago that had taken root and refused to be pushed back into the recesses of my mind.

When I was a child, I would accompany my older sister on the weekly giving days encouraged by our faction. Every week, she would leave school holding my hand, and every week, as soon as we were out of sight of the teachers and other students, she would sling her own Volunteer satchel over my free shoulder and run home, leaving me to give to the factionless myself. I remember being terrified the first time I saw her wicked, retreating smirk. The factionless, although spoken of as a downtrodden people in need of pity and help, were (at best) carefully avoided, as one would a cockroach or an abandoned, ownerless coat on the street. At worst—I did not want to think of what happened to them.

I had carefully rewrapped both bread loaves from each Volunteer satchel in their protective cloth before leaving them on a bench on the outskirts of factionless territory. As I shouldered the bags and turned to leave, I suddenly felt an unfamiliar weight against my hip. Spooked as a stray cat, I had sprinted as fast as I could back to my faction's side. Once I reached the boundary, I had looked back over my shoulder to see an old, stooped man pick up one of the loaves, look up at me—and raise his hand in a small gesture of thanks. I remember turning back around and running home as fast as I could, refusing to leave my room until my parents had returned to an untidy, unprepared living unit and encouraged me to come downstairs.

I couldn't sleep that night out of fear of what could be lurking in my satchel. I cursed myself for not dropping it behind me on the street, yet was grateful that I didn't have a punishment waiting for me because of it. I imagined time bombs, dead animals, even a severed head. Finally, I plucked up the courage, lifted a corner of the top flap of the bag, and peeked inside.

It was a book.

Beautifully bound, with a creamy off-white cover and deep green spine, it lay in my tattered bag like a diamond in dust.

One moment was wasted in frozen, uncomprehending shock. Another was spent wondering how the man had managed to obtain it, not to mention keep it in such good condition (to the former thought, I concluded that he must have been Erudite, as only they are allowed to own books; to the latter, I'm still unsure). By the third, I was cautiously admiring the cover and turning the ivory pages. I spent the night with a carefully guarded candle held dangerously near, creating a bizarre, breathtaking world within my own, one filled with roiling ocean and an untamable, uncontainable beast.

The next week, my sister and I both repeated our respective procedures. This time, however, instead of a dead sprint, I left the bench at a fast walk, breaking into a half-jog as I neared familiar Abnegation territory. I looked over my shoulder again, but did not see the man. Surprised, I stopped in my tracks, only remembering how fast my legs could carry me when a different factionless emerged from a nearby alley.

I never saw the man again. I suppose factionless do not stay in one place for very long.

That night had left a searing, slow-burning ember in my memory. I began to steal books. With every opportunity that arose—there were never nearly enough—I would slip the paper treasures into my school satchel whenever we visited Erudite during the annual Inter-Faction Week. It was here, several years later, when I stumbled upon that strange, perfect word.

From its resemblance to a more familiar word, I had thought it to mean _sunrise_, that pale, steady lightening from grey to blue. I believed I could encompass that steadiness one day; that I would rise patiently and ceaselessly from grey to blue, and perhaps, when the moment came, I would be able to surpass even that and make my way into lightest, softest red.

But something had changed. I had seen an impossible, divinely new version of something I had always believed to be subtle, constant, and sure. And although it was not what I had previously associated with that word—so carefully cultivated until it had grown into a name reserved solely for my own consciousness—it was something I could aspire to become. Maybe the time for softness and subtlety was over. Maybe it was time to radiate upward and outward and from within.

* * *

Rowan

I don't remember my own Choosing, only that I had afterwards looked back at my cheering faction in time to see a pair of oversized eyes looking back at me. They were so richly dark brown that they looked almost black. They were softly lined at the corners and reflected the lights from the ceiling so that they seemed to house entire constellations. I remember those eyes, the shyly encouraging curve of the lips, the soft clapping of hands resting carefully, one on top of the other, in a lap, and nothing else. Even when those eyes slid past me to the next Chooser, the smile dimming just a shade, I felt as if I were anchored firmly to the ground, aware of all of the lights and sounds around me for the first time in months.

I rode back to my faction in a daze and walked mechanically to the Mess Hall, surrounded by laughter and conversation yet unable to hear it. But then my gaze somehow found her and everything came rushing back in a torrent of organized cacophony. I chose a seat parallel to her at an adjacent table, so as to avoid staring, yet I couldn't help but observe her.

As she glanced around the dining hall, her eyebrows momentarily contracted at the too-wide, glazed looks surrounding her. A moment later, realization dawned on her face as she noticed people instinctively reaching for the bread before all the other food, sometimes squabbling with each other in order to get the biggest and best piece. When the small scuffles had died down and everyone started passing around the other food, she casually took a tiny piece of crust and laid it in her plate, away from all the other food.

She was smart, observant: I hadn't realized they were lacing the bread for years. Until my mother had taken me home after dinner one night, struck me, and then hugged me as she cried, saying she couldn't bear to see me turn out like the rest of them. I was not only shocked and ashamed for hurting her, I felt all the worse for not having noticed it myself.

Her eyes met mine, momentarily widening in shock and confusion before she looked quickly down at her plate, instinctively curling her shoulders protectively around her collarbones. I looked away, angry and embarrassed that she had caught me watching her, but also guilty for making her uncomfortable. I knew what it was like to be stared at and whispered about: the furtive glances and hushed voices had followed me my entire life. When I was young, it had been jibes and taunts. A few years later, however, and I wished it was still sneering that I had to endure. Their morbidly curious interest in the strange, solemn boy had left me angry, at a loss for how to cope except with irritation and unease. And although they claimed that they had been children and didn't any better, I know that people never change, especially those who crave attention and validation in insatiable, ever-increasing supply.

"Easy, Row. Why are you glaring at the girl like you want to shoot her in the fields?" Wade's tray clatters down next to me and is generously heaped. With a start, I realized I had been staring at her again, seconds after I told myself I wouldn't. This time, it had been a perceivably hostile sideways glance out of the corner of my eye. No wonder she had looked so unnerved.

"I mean, she isn't much, thin wisp of a thing, but I'm sure she still has feelings," His mischievous grin faded when he saw my expression, then was quickly replaced with a cautiously nonchalant concern.

"I'm going to the Cave with Laurel tonight, you should join us. She said she'd bring Raven."

Raven: beautiful and strong, with feathery, jet-black hair and moon-pale skin; with broad shoulders and thick thighs, receiving envious and lustful glances alike with the same knowing smirk. She was beautiful. And cunning. And cruel. The thought of her made my insides turn to ice. I pushed my plate away, mumbling something unintelligible even to myself.

He immediately pushed it back in front of me with a low, repeated apology. But I knew it was my fault. Wade had endured as much as I had during our childhood, yet was able to forgive and forget and fall into the easy, careless love that should be Amity life. Girls were constantly chasing him, and he them, without a second's hesitation. And here I was, unable to bring myself to face even one.

Before I could catch myself, I glanced at her again. She was looking at some unseeable thing somewhere over her companions' heads while they babbled, unaware, around her. I looked away, vowing to myself that I would never again look at her. I wouldn't pay her any mind at all. Until one of them loudly asked her name. I involuntarily leaned closer, eyes trained upon the plate in front of me.

I didn't hear her reply over the din, until it was repeated. Tested and tried and rolled over tongues. And found to have a weight and shine all it's own.

I silently sounded it out for myself. The easy waves reverberated through my mind and down my nape. It reminded me of the Cave. I smiled.

_Risa_.


	4. Chapter 4

Risa

An enormous tree spiraled gracefully upward to meet the glass dome of the hall, commanding the attention of even the most seasoned members of the crowd slowly filing into the room. I tried not to let my apprehension show, but my rigid Abnegation pose made my nervousness even more conspicuous. I distracted myself by admiring the tree; it must have taken generations of careful tending to create such an elegant, uniform shape.

"Hey Stiff, you ever been rutted against a tree?"

Icy shards slipped down my spine and pierced my belly. I recoiled away from the oily, venomous words against my ear as quickly as I could, half-turning to face their maker.

Two boys, one close-sheared and sinewy, the other dark and lean, and a girl who would have been lovely if not for a soulless smile laughed raucously.

"Risa. Over here." Protective, steel-edged words freed me and I hurried to Brooke's side.

"Don't worry about them. They think they're untouchable because Raven's mother is the President of the faction. We'll get Mase to drop a hammer on Hunter's foot or something."

I laughed to force the remaining shudder out of my body as she pulled me into a free space within the crowd. Voices turned to murmurs and finally fell silent as the Heads of Faction rose from their seats. "Listen up, Reese," she whispered with a wink. "This is when you find your calling."

* * *

"Tomorrow marks the start of Orientation Week. During this time, your work will be closely monitored by the Heads of Faction, and at the end of the week, your Contribution Role will be assigned to you."

As the President went on to explain the guidelines, I looked down at my hands and seemed to truly see them for the first time.

I had childishly small hands. My palms were pinkish, spongy, and slightly swollen at the fingertips from poor circulation. The backs were entirely covered in a multitude of tiny wrinkles. The knuckles were permanently rosy and much rougher than the remaining skin, indicative of the numerous times the skin had cracked and regrown during the cold winter months. Just how unfit I was for this faction started to dawn on me, followed closely by an electric panic at the prospect of becoming factionless.

It turned out that I had nothing to worry about: I had underestimated how accommodating Amity could be, and certainly wasn't expecting so many different areas of work. True, several of my group members were five years younger than me, but it was pleasant, satisfying work, made even more so under the beaming sun and saturated sky.

The greenhouses were beautiful, cathedral-sized monuments, filled with fruits and vegetables that I hadn't even seen before, let alone tasted. Abnegation are not supposed to indulge in luxury, which meant that all of our food was bland and tasteless. Even salt was frowned upon, despite being necessary for survival. I saw Grace pluck a cherry from a row of small trees and pop it in her mouth without a second thought. Feeling both guilty and exhilarated, I did the same. It was unlike anything I'd ever had before: drenching and delightful. She spotted me and I winked, putting a finger to my newly dyed lips. We stood there, the two of us, sneaking berries and giggling like schoolgirls.

The kitchens were impressive as well, filled with huge vats of steaming fruit slowly simmering into jams and preserves, mounds of potatoes piled into pond-sized cauldrons of boiling water, and every herb and spice imaginable being cut and dried and crushed and bottled by smiling men and women, chatting easily as they worked. I felt even more out of place than usual in here, and they seemed to agree, putting me on dish duty. However, passion for an art—especially one that has been deprived for so long—manifests itself eventually, and I savored every minute of the cooking classes.

Rows upon rows of orchards and endlessly sprawling fields ringed the outside perimeter of Amity territory. Most of the members—including those my age—worked here. I was able to easily climb the apple trees to shake down fruit into the waiting baskets; however, although I enjoyed the challenge of hauling bales, I woke up bruised and sore from the harder physical labor, and knew I would not be placed among my peers.

The only place I didn't like were the root cellars. The underground rooms were impressively huge like the other buildings. Rows of long, rectangular alcoves for shelves were carved into the earthen walls, and were protected by padlocked wooden panels over the front to deter intelligent, thieving raccoons. They held a multitude of preserved fruits and vegetables and spices; one room could easily have fed the entire faction for months. But I couldn't even bring myself to fully descend the staircase. I had always been afraid of small spaces; my father had tried to 'teach' me out of the fear by repeatedly pulling my the cowl of my Abnegation ceremonial robe over my face—the same doctrine by which he 'taught' me out of being left-handed by rapping my left knuckles with a wooden ruler until they bruised—but that only resulted in a severe distaste towards hoods and a strong inclination to run when faced with a confining space.

A couple of Amity laughed good-naturedly at my obvious aversion, yet understood and allowed me to pass items down the assembly line from the top of the staircase. Once again, I was overcome by the friendliness of everyone here.

The next week, I proudly crossed the stage amid cheering members and accepted my role as one of a multitude of chef apprentices.


	5. Chapter 5

Rowan

I am once again struck by how contrived Amity can be.

I'm given a new set of work clothes at the start of Orientation Week (new for me, anyway; there's a hole near the collar and one of the buttons is missing). But I can't complain. The material is warm flannel, useful for next season's harvest when Wade and I will be working long, chilly hours.

The new clothes are all the incentive we will receive to "work hard and prove the faction's worth" during the Week. Not that we need any: the threat of becoming factionless is incentive enough for all of us.

I spot a few Dauntless scanning the migrating crowd. Every faction keeps a few Dauntless for control purposes. Amity's guards try to keep themselves as inconspicuous as possible, but one can still glimpse a tattoo on a neck or arm every now and again.

I join the tide of yellow and red making their way to the orchards. I'll be hauling bales of apples today. There isn't much difference in the work I do, but I know my place and enjoy the physical labor.

The day is warm and bright, good for relaxing but poor for working. Within a matter of minutes, I am dripping with sweat. It's dangerous for me to be counting my work hours so early in the season, but I find myself already straining to catch the distant toll of Candor's bell beyond our acres.

* * *

The lunch bell rang throughout the orchard just as I heaved the last bale of apples onto the truck. I suddenly caught a clear, alto laugh, and as I turned, a small figure hopped down from a nearby tree.

The transformation was astonishing. Her once pale skin had tanned to a golden bronze, the dark veins almost completely hidden under a bright pink flush. Her hair was not black, as I'd originally thought, but the same rich dark brown as her eyes. As she unfastened the coil at her nape, loose curls fanned out behind her, catching the sun and shimmering with copper, gold, even hints of darkest purple.

She gave Heather a mischievous, deeply dimpled smile as she emptied a few apples from the folds of her work apron into waiting burlap. I mechanically took a few steps closer.

She had neatly mended a tear near the shoulder of her yellow hand-me-down with a row of tiny x-shaped stitches and curbed the large folds of the dress with a deep red sash.

The two set off for the Mess Hall. I followed in a stupor.

* * *

"Row. Hey, Row. Did you hear what I said?"

"Nah, he's daydreaming again. Who's the lucky girl?"

I laughed along with Heath, catching Wade by surprise, but he quickly regained his composure and repeated his question. Something about the Cave. This time, though, I didn't mind.

"Yeah, sure," I replied, grinning uncontrollably at the shock-turned-delight on their faces.

"Well, I'll be forsaken," said Wade with a laugh, thumping me on the back. He said something else, but I didn't hear. I was busy watching Heather explain the Cave to a pair of shining, overlarge eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Risa

"Are you ready for the best kept secret in the faction?"

Heather covered my eyes with the sash of my dress as we made our way towards the Cave. I could hear a multitude of voices among us and it wasn't long before we were joined by the familiar laughter of Mason and the twins.

"Hey, Reese. You ready to see the Cave for the first time ever?" Mason patted my shoulder.

"Leave her be, everyone. You're making her nervous." But even Brooke's motherly concern was overpowered by her excitement for what was to come. "Don't worry Risa. You're going to love this."

I heard a door being thrown open, and was corralled to the entrance by bumping shoulders and nudging hands. My feet hit wooden boards, and it wasn't until I found my next step to be six inches lower that I realized they were stairs.

"You said this was a cave," I wavered, a pit forming in my stomach as I turned back and attempted to uncover my eyes.

"No, we said it was _the_ Cave," Mason said with a laugh.

"We're right beside you, Risa. Once you see it, I promise you'll change your mind. If not I'll walk you home. Deal?"

I nodded, fighting the rising tide of panic making its way to my throat. I descended the stairs; another heavy door and I could feel that we had arrived from the rush of cool air and hollow, echoing voices.

"Here we are. Welcome to the Cave."

I slowly opened my now-uncovered eyes and blinked. Once, twice. My mouth opened in utter disbelief.

The others smiled and wandered separately toward familiar, rarely-seen faces, leaving me with knowing pats on the back.

The Cave, in its simplest form, was an old, abandoned root cellar. The room was illuminated by hundreds of red, green, and purple lanterns. The powerful spotlights usually used for shelving days were gone, save for one suspended from the ceiling, trained on a small cluster of people in the center of the room. I sidestepped a pack to see what they were attending to.

_Drums._ Gigantic drums of all sizes were being tested and tuned. I made my way to one, admiring the taut skin and dark, rounded belly. I looked up to see one of the drummers grinning at me.

"You ain't seen nothing yet. You ready?"

I nodded eagerly, retreating to the fringes of the room. 

* * *

Groups of people milled around the edges of the vast floor, laughing and chattering with increased intensity as more arrived.

Until the first drum sounded.

The reverberation hummed through my body and made my hair stand on end. Then another one, and now one from a second drum, and so on, until the room shook with steady, powerful waves of sound.

The room roared with approval, and the bravest few made their way to the middle of the floor. The apparent leader took a moment to catch the rhythm, then started a series of hopping steps in a circle around the drums. The others watched for a moment and then followed suit, matching her movements. Others quickly followed, forming their own concentric circles around the first and creating different steps, hopping and stamping and kicking and chanting in time with the drums.

Glen had been right. I had forgotten all about the dim, dank cellars I once feared. A grin exploded across my face, and I laughed at the contagious joy swirling around the room. Here was the magic and madness I had been searching for.


	7. Chapter 7

Rowan

"Rowan! You're late!"

I hopped over the lowest drum in the circle and pulled the beaming drummer into a bear hug. "Good to see you, Clif. It's been a long time."

"Too long. We missed you up here." The other drummers crowded around us momentarily, patting my head and shoulders, whatever they could reach, until Clif laughingly herded them back to their drums. "People are getting antsy. You ready?"

I took a moment to appreciate the cool, smooth mallet in my hand. I had forgotten how much I loved this, how much I had missed these people. It was our one chance to socialize and catch up with each other, free from the burden of work; because of this, people closely guarded and preserved the Cave as a haven from reality.

Clif started the beat, and we added our own rhythm to his. I closed my eyes and savored the subtle, rippling patterns melding effortlessly with one another. Clif roared a note of appreciation, and I laughed, truly enjoying myself for the first time in years.

I scanned the perimeter of the room, searching, but to my surprise found her already dancing in one of the circles, skirts hiked up almost to her knees as she hopped in line behind Jade. Her curls bounced against her shoulders, raining tiny blue flowers. She must have just picked them hours ago.

As she danced, her eyes tracked the movements of another circle; after a few beats, she seamlessly moved to that one, now following a series of complicated kicks. She had an energy and grace not usually seen in our faction, let alone from Abnegation. I almost skipped a beat on my drum.

I suddenly felt a sharp elbow from Clif, and looked around. I saw Raven pushing her way towards me and felt a jolt. This time, I actually did skip a beat on my drum.

"What the hell, Rowan. You were supposed to meet me here, remember? I waited for you for a half hour."

_Shit._ "I'm really sorry, Raven. I didn't realize." Clif thankfully took over my rhythm, combining it with his own. I fumbled through an explanation under Raven's steadily darkening glare.

"Sod off," she finally spat, shoving her way back through the rings of dancers.

I saw Wade across the room, trying to catch my attention. He mouthed an apology. _This is what he must've been trying to tell me earlier._ I shook my head and shrugged, pointedly keeping my eyes on my drum.

A few moments later, however, and I was once again scanning the room.

I found myself grinning involuntarily at her unbridled glee. I called to Clif, and the drummers increased the tempo of the rhythm.

I heard a high, clear whoop amid the frenzy. I tilted back my head and laughed at the ceiling.


	8. Chapter 8

Risa

The night had been a blur of sound and energy. I danced and spun until I had lost all sense of self and became one with the hurricane of Amity. The drums beat harder and faster, rising to a near-impossible tempo, but I braved the storm until the very end.

* * *

Most of the room had cleared, with a few stragglers sweeping the floor and packing away the drums. I busied myself by taking down lanterns in an unoccupied section while I waited for the others.

Suddenly, the cloying scent of fermented apples filled my nostrils. I turned in time to see a pale, lovely face leering down at me. Then, two pairs of hands hauled me up by the arms and under the knees.

_Panic_

The creak of rusted hinges, shattering of lanterns; a half-yell cut short, and I am stuffed into an old shelving unit. Raucous laughter.

_Panic_

The front panel slams down, and I find myself in complete darkness. I can feel hard, packed earth against my back; one shoulder is twisted underneath me. Toes pushed painfully against the wood.

I fight overwhelming terror, reminding myself not to take too-deep breaths, reassuring myself. _You've done this before._ The others will notice I'm gone and will come looking for me before I run out of air.

The scrape of a padlock sliding into the catch. Its dull click tells me I am truly trapped.

All reason is flung from my mind and I am a child back in Abnegation in a tiny clothing unit in the dark and I am frightened I am ramming my heels against the door and trying to scream but it is hoarse as if too much air is trying to escape all at once and I am pounding against old musty grain begging to be let out but I know no one can hear me they are still talking and laughing outside blocking the escape blocking my sounds and a wall of stars is blinding my vision and bile is closing my throat oh god how could I have been so stupid and now no one knows where I am and no one will be able to find me I am going to die in here.

_I am going to die in here._

And then yelling and someone is banging back against the panel from the outside, trying to communicate, trying to tell me that they are here. I do not hear laughter anymore. I am still clawing at the panel, though I don't know why.

And, finally, a snap and lift and rush of damp air and dim light and I am pulled and lifted and carried and, finally, cool clean air like an oasis in desert and my throat has unstuck but I am still unable to suck in air, I'm still making these animal yelps; I cannot breathe the air that I am surrounded by and I am furious with myself and then ashamed; I try to take a step and the world lurches out from underneath my feet and then I find I am clinging to slick grass until I am gasping for air and retching and then the ringing fades from my ears and I am looking up at a high, cold moon with hot, streaming eyes half-curled on the ground. I can faintly recall I used to sleep with my knees to my chest, ankles crossed like an infant and now I am once again curled like a newborn calf damp and stunned on the ground.

I hear a distant voice somewhere behind me. I am now acutely aware of how I must look, sweating and senseless, reborn into a cold, unforgiving world. Only I am not given the blessing of ignorance. I must remember everything. I am not allowed to forget.

I pick myself up and stumble home.


	9. Chapter 9

Grace

My name is Grace. I am from Amity. I am eight years old and I will be nine this coming harvest. I made a friend who is new to my faction. She and I like breaking the rules. But she says that this rule we broke has to be a secret from everyone. She is teaching me to read and write. It is slow work for me. I said to her I do not know what to write about. She says the easiest thing to write about is a person or a place or an object. So I should choose one of these things and I should write as much as I can about everything and nothing. I will try.

Today I ask Risa what her name means. There is a special meaning behind every name says my mother. Risa says her name is from a longer word used a long time ago but not any more. She says the old word means laughter. My mother says my name means kindness. Risa smiles a lot and she laughs just like her name means. I hope I am kind so I can be like my name too.

At the beginning of this season, just when the plants start to turn green again, I found a runt from the litter of one of our cattle dogs near the stables. The pup was thin and weak. It used to cry during thunderstorms but I held it and fed it. It has grown quickly and now responds when I call. I showed Risa its secret hiding place and we take turns sneaking food for it. It knows her voice now, too. It used to be scared of many things but now it wags its tail when it hears us. That makes me happy.

I like breaking rules with Risa. Sometimes, I'll finish my work at the greenhouse early and I will go to the kitchen to visit her. I like the food she makes and I can tell when it is her turn to make the stew for supper. She always sneaks a roll of bread for me. The bread she makes tastes good. It is fresh and light, much better than the hard bread we eat every day. But it makes me feel strange. As if I have lost something I know I will not find again.

One time I saw Risa sneak out of her bunker past the guards after curfew. The next day I asked her where she was going. She says she likes to take walks at night. It is quiet and calm and she feels closer to the stars, almost as if she can reach out and touch them. Her old faction makes everyone stay inside at night and they have never seen the moon or even the sunset. That makes me sad and then angry. I ask why people do bad things like that. She gives me a sad smile and then says people do not think they are bad, they think they are good and they do things for the good of other people. I tell her that her old faction should let people be outside at night. She smiles her sad smile again and tells me this faction should, too.

Yesterday, Risa said she was too tired to teach me to write. Her fingers are scraped and bleed easily. I asked her what happened. She says she had an accident. She did not smile, not even a sad smile. I thought about it when I was in bed, before sleep. Today, I ask her if people did bad things. She looks at me and says she does not know but I think she does know. I ask if they are the kind of people who do bad things but think they are doing good things for other people. She looks at me for a long time and then she says no. They are not.


	10. Chapter 10

Wade

"Rowan. What the hell happened last night?" A shrug and half-shoulder away from me. I normally hate it when he sulks but this time is different. He seems genuinely worried, constantly glancing across the Mess Hall and rubbing his knuckles absentmindedly.

I know better than to push for answers. I focus on my meal and wait for him, and he eventually turns slightly back. Our usually companionable silence is now prickly with tension.

I hope he's not in trouble with any of the Heads. We used to get in trouble all the time when we were younger. He just couldn't handle the other children's teasing, and I ensured he never lost a fight. He's gotten better about falling in line since then but we cannot afford to be singled out. We're lucky to be alive as it is, and it's only because the two of us can pull in more harvest than ten people combined. Even after all these years, one more outburst and we may be made examples of to the rest of the faction.

I mean, I don't agree with any of this, either. Who benefits from this life, other than the ones sitting high and mighty at the top? Out here, it has never been about wanting more, or better. It's about survival. I wish he could accept that.

Being slightly older than Rowan meant taking responsibility for my family in more ways than one—and the heaviest burden was never the physical labor. When we were young, my birth mother entrusted me to care for him, and I have done my best to keep that promise. He is not making it easy for either of us. But as much as his brooding irritates me, I can never stay mad at him. He's always watched the skies while I studied the ground. I can't blame him for wanting to fly when I can barely muster the courage to run.

Even so, he needs to be careful. The smallest conflict with the wrong people here can have dangerous consequences. And seeing his nervousness heightened to this degree after his encounter with Raven makes me very worried.

* * *

I look up and try to warn Rowan but it is too late. Raven is sprawled on the bench next to him, elbows up and back against the table—and me.

"Hey, Row," she drawls in his ear. I see him bristle at the uninvited nickname, but other than that, he does not react. I have never seen him so on edge: I'm reminded of a cat with hackles raised and eyes wide open, ready to spring into defense. He's usually nervous around people but this is quickly becoming obvious hostility. I glance at the Dauntless guards standing at the entrances of the Hall.

"So-o, I've decided to forgive your little mistake." Her words are a teasing singsong and she arrogantly speaks to her outstretched boot instead of Rowan. "I won't lie, at first I was a little jealous. I thought you were standing me up for someone worthwhile. But now I know she's noth-"

"Stay the _fuck_ away from her."

Her eyes and voice immediately drop the gambit. "You think she can compare to me? She's a mouse of a human."

"Yeah, and you're a weasel."

I'm panicking now. Any second and we're done for. One of the Dauntless is already making his way towards us. But Raven picks her teasing demeanor right back up when she catches sight of the guard and struts away from our table, throwing her hair over her shoulder and smirking at a glowering Rowan. His fists are balled up so tight they are shaking, but when he turns back to me, there is a visceral fear in his eyes.

I still have no idea what just happened, but at this point, I don't care. My disgust with Raven and concern for our wellbeing causes me to lose my temper.

"Look, whatever happened, you're gonna have to can it." My low snarl cuts off his attempted protest. "You think they care who started it? You're going to get us thrown out, or worse, if you keep this up. I don't even know why I have to remind you. We aren't children anymore, this horseshit isn't going to fly with the Heads."

He jerks his head up in shock at the reprimand. It pains me to see him look so wounded, but he nods his agreement and lowers his head.

My tone softens. "The best thing for everyone is to stay out of trouble. It's safer for everyone that way."

"Yeah, no, I get it. I've been an idiot."

I sigh. "Let's just get this harvest done so we can get through the winter. This one's going to be rough, it's already starting to get cold."

He nods, head bent over his plate. We eat in silence until the signal bell sends us back into the fields.


	11. Chapter 11

Risa

I revel in the soft chaos of nighttime. The air is buzzing with activity but in the dark the sounds seem muted, comforting. It's a new moon tonight. Perhaps it is a sign for new beginnings.

The nights arrive earlier and darker, but the clear skies allow the stars to stand stark against its velvety indigo. Sometimes the moon casts silvery light across the grounds, making it much easier to see, but I'm also glad for nights such as this, where I can easily bypass the guards enforcing curfew.

There are some rules I don't break anymore. I have stopped teaching Grace as I used to; it's far more important to keep her out of trouble. Sometimes we need humility to remind ourselves that this is not our world. But I do not feel guilty about breaking this one. When something has been forbidden under the guise of helping the people, it usually is only there to benefit those at the top, those whose only job is to turn the crank of the machine and watch the puppets dance.

There isn't much to say anymore. During the day, I keep my head down and work quickly and efficiently. But night is for dreaming, and I cannot resist its call. Perhaps I belong to the night rather than the day. For I have grown dark and quiet as a shadow. And when sun meets shadow, it tends to disappear entirely.

* * *

The sharp snap of a twig jerks me away from my thoughts. I become aware I've been making more noise than usual while trying to find my footing along the unlit path. I silently step away, between the trees, and wait for the guard to pass.

The rank smell of fermented apples fills my nostrils, and I realize much too late that it wasn't a guard.

* * *

I was hurt by a boy, once. The kind where he continued living and I tucked in all my corners and, like a spider, withdrew. And all I knew was liquor and laughter. 'Tears of joy, right?' I promised myself I would never let it happen again, but nothing is for certain. I thought modesty would keep me safe. I was wrong. Even afterwards, when I clung to it and wrapped it around myself like a cape, I was wrong. All I know is that there is a hierarchy of pain, and those at the bottom receive it tenfold, and tenfold again.

I always imagined hell to be cold. A lifetime ago, when my people would preach and threaten with it, they would always say we would burn in flames. I am burning now, but from cold. I thought sacrifice would keep me good but I suppose I am wrong once again. My hell is cold.

_Tears of joy, right?_


	12. Chapter 12

Heather

I nestle my fingers into the familiar dents of my mug and let its lazy steam warm my nose. It's a chilly morning, but the season's known for bipolar weather. My weary shuffle converges with those of other early-rising harvesters on their way to the Mess Hall.

Suddenly, a loud, shrill scream emanates from the Great Hall. I mutter an oath as hot coffee splashes over my fingers. Others around me are jolted from their walking slumber as well; I can hear their whispers and murmurs behind me. I turn towards the Hall, and can see through its open doors to the Unity Tree.

I don't notice my shoes are drenched until I hear the clatter of tin on stone. I don't notice I have stumbled off the path until I see dark mud and grass under my fingernails. And then I am running as fast as I can.

* * *

"Oh, my god."

"No. No, no, no. This isn't happening."

"Get her down. Get her down from there now."

"Somebody get help!"

"Someone call Rosemary!"

I tear off my jacket as I near the Tree, but he's already wrapping her in flannel. He lifts her, supporting her weight. Her feet are blue.

"The rope's too tight around her wrists. We have to cut her down."

"Who has a knife?"

"Wait, wait. Her shoulder's dislocated."

The dry, ripping sound of fibers being cut. Her hands are caught before they fall.

"I'll set it," Jordan's slow, calming voice is now tight. "I did it for Dale back when he fell out of that tree."

A sickening pop. A half-sob escapes my throat.

_"Where_ _the_ _hell_ _is_ _Rosemary?"_ It is meant to be an angry yell, but it comes out much too high, almost a keen.

He staggers and almost drops her as he starts carrying her across the grounds towards the Healing Ward. He is saying something over and over again but I can't understand it.

I remember my jacket in my limp hand and run up beside him. As I throw it over her I can finally hear what he is sobbing into her neck.

"I'm so sorry, Mama. I'm so sorry. Please. Please. You'll be okay. Please."


	13. Chapter 13

Wade

Our mothers killed themselves. No use trying to deny it. Sister suicides. One stole appeasement serum from the monthly stock and the other hoarded it. They killed themselves in the fields, where people go to die, to find peace. Same thing. They just couldn't handle the sadness anymore.

He and I stuck together, as family does. We were what we needed to get through the loss of our mothers.

We knew exactly where they were when they didn't come home that evening. By the time we got there, the coyotes were already calling to each other in their unsettling cries, as if they were laughing at what we had just lost.

He tried everything. He wouldn't even let me near them when he saw me holding the brushwood. I fended off the scavengers while he shouted and cried and shook them and tried to wake them up. I didn't come near him until he had grown still and silent.

We built a pyre for them. If we bury our dead, the coyotes dig them up.

* * *

It's been a few days now. Things have quietened down. They had to double the bread rations. People were calling for President Egret's resignation. They only stopped when a couple dozen extra Dauntless got shipped in and put everyone back in line. 'We have a harvest to get through. It's unfortunate, but life doesn't stop just because of one person.' Fucking disgusting.

It's my fault. I know that. I wish I'd listened to him before, wish I'd paid more attention. We are no strangers to loss. Accidents happen in our line of work, and we both learned early that it is unlucky and cumbersome to get too close. But maybe I could've helped. Or saved…

There are no words to describe him. I used to worry about him getting kicked out before, but now I have to try to accept a route where he doesn't make it at all. It keeps me up at night, more so than usual. I don't know if there's a word for a despair so deep it leaves you nauseous, where no matter how slow and deep you breathe, you can never get enough air into your lungs. But that's how it feels.

He keeps his head down. Barely eats. People carefully give us a wide berth. We prefer it that way.

It is sunny today. The leaves are copper, gold, even darkest purple.

I look out past the orchards, to the fields. The world is always spinning, trying to fling us away into the stars. We must cling to it with all our strength.


End file.
